The Kiss of Death
by MissCarbon
Summary: A plot to take out the King of Gotham was brewing. His impending death soon. Dare Oswald believe such accusations brought to his attention by a complete stranger? But when his naïve little world begins to crumble around him Oswald's practically forced to put blind faith into this mysterious woman. Will she help him come out victorious or will she just be his ultimate Kiss of Death?
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: Gotham is owned by Bruno Heller and DC Comics.**

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 **Chapter One  
** **November 4, 2019**

Fish Mooney had been dead for years. Her disjointed, mangled body had washed ashore days later after her triumphant, but ultimately useless, return. The Gotham River had chewed her up and spit her out—gutting her like the slimy fish she was. Found by two unsuspecting teenagers carousing the bay late one night they almost mistook the waterlogged body for the usual Gotham debris that littered the gloomy shorelines throughout the dying city. Fish was almost unrecognizable. Her right arm and left leg had been missing, chewed off by daring Bull Sharks that liked to swim upstream from time to time, leaving strips of gnawed tissue and bone behind in their wake. Chunks of her once beautiful chocolate-brown skin were absent, lacerated beyond repair and a large portion of her torso had been eaten away as well. The spirit that had sparked life into the once dying Theatre District had finally vanished.

Salvatore Maroni had been another one to go. One of Gotham's major crime bosses had been shot right between the eyes by none other than Fish Mooney herself. Good riddance. The fact that she had taken the liberty to do it herself in front of multiple faces of Gotham's crime organization—including a few pigs—had been a great relief among the majority present. Two individual leaders had perished together in one night leaving gaps open for Carmine Falcone to take over freely but he was nowhere to be found, taking off into the night without a word to an undisclosed location.

After those three major heads were out of the picture that had left feeble, little Cobblepot. Oswald Cobblepot, also known as Penguin on the inner streets of Gotham, had survived. He had survived and he had thrived. The self-proclaimed "King of Gotham" had manipulated his way to the top. There was no other to oppose him now and the remnants of the other circles had quickly swore their loyalty only after a few sly words of persuasion on his part. They were all so easily influenced and he had had no trouble finally taking Gotham by the reins. Oswald quickly restored order among the streets, only having to take three bodies to send a message to those out there who had tried to oppose him in the beginning. His renovated bar—Oswald's—was finally a highly profitable establishment, the earnings constantly rising with each passing year. Since everyone had finally hopped aboard the 'Penguin Train' the crime organization in Gotham had seen nothing but sunshine and rainbows, so to speak, and the criminals locked within the zoo they called home were finally making decent money out on the streets.

Though, not all the money in the world could buy true happiness. Oswald had figured that out quickly once coming into power and it was this thought alone that plagued him constantly when he was finally able to retire to his bedchambers for the night. He hated to be alone with his thoughts and often turned to marijuana to clear his swimming mind before he laid down to rest.

Tonight, Oswald had changed out of his dark lavender tailored suit and into briefs and a white tank top. He stood staring at himself in the full length mirror that hung on the wall adjacent from his bed in disgust. A sneer was placed upon his lips as he stared at the oily features of his face. He turned his head to the side, eyeing his crooked nose. Such an ugly thing. Though he would never admit it out loud, it _did_ look like a beak. The name he had earned unwillingly on the streets of Gotham actually fit and he hated it. Saliva became thick within his mouth and he struggled to swallow the dry lump within. Oswald quickly turned away from the mirror before his self-loathing consumed him. He then felt himself heading towards the closed double doors of his bedroom before his mind even registered what he was doing. He shook his head and ran a hand down his face before placing his hand on the golden handle. He stuck his head out, now curious to see if the newly appointed hire was still in position before he retired to bed. Oswald was quite satisfied when he found Reggie, 6'5 and build like a brick house, standing right where he had left him when he had ventured upstairs with Oswald hours ago. The younger man of twenty-one quickly turned, straightening his back as he faced his new boss.

"Sir, is everything alright?" he questioned pointedly, his hand swiftly reaching for the charcoal-grey pistol he had strapped to his side.

Oswald held up his hand, stopping the young gentleman in his haste. "No, no, all is well," he lied with a slick smile planted on his face.

Without another word Oswald retreated back inside his dimly lit bedroom. Light from the full moon filtered through the large full-length widow that overlooked Gotham Bay, draping the contents of his room in a pale blue light. Oswald sat on the edge of his bed, sighing as he pulled out a golden box from the top drawer of his nightstand. He stared down at the Falcone family crest, the item once belonging to Carmine of course, and with a shaky hand he fingered the intricately drawn shield before flipping open the box and pulling out a finely rolled joint from its contents. Placing the box back from whence it came, Oswald retreated in between the sheets and rested his back against the pillows. He lit the end of the splif and then inhaled its smoky goodness, closing his eyes, finally allowing himself to relax. After a few more puffs it felt as though he were lying across a sandy beach allowing the waves to crash over his stiff body. He smiled to himself—a good indicator the drug was doing its job.

Six o'clock was going to come early. Victor Zsasz was due back in the morning to return Butch. For Victor's loyalty it's what the two had agreed upon in the beginning when Oswald was first establishing power. Twice a month the crazed lunatic would come for Butch and drag him off to God knows where. For the night, Butch was surrendered over and succumbed to unimaginable things. Oswald often wondered what the mad man did to his right hand when he had him held captive but Oswald hardly dared to spend too much energy speculating or even having the guts to ask Butch himself; chances were he wouldn't be comfortable finding out about the acts that took place anyway. Though, whatever he was doing it _was_ working and it left Oswald speechless. It had been over four years since Victor had dropped Butch off in front of him and he had yet to have a problem out of him. The man was as loyal as a dog. Oswald took another deep drag off the joint. In all honesty he really didn't care what Victor did to him. Although unfortunate, it was a price that had to be paid. Having Victor Zsasz on his side was not an opportunity Oswald was willing to pass up.

He pulled the last drag from the joint and tossed it away in the tray he had upon his nightstand. Oswald turned over on his side and stared over at the light that filtered through the crack underneath the bedroom doors. Though Oswald was ashamed to admit it, a small part of him was actually fond of his safeguard, Butch. He was thankful that Victor hadn't negotiated for more days—yet. Oswald never slept quite as well when Butch was away. He was without a doubt the most honest and loyal man by his side—besides his mother—and when he was gone, Oswald was left in the clutches of the other loyalist who he still didn't quite figure were over the things that had trespassed nearly four years ago.

After a while Oswald found himself drifting between conscious awareness and deep sleep when a soft knock upon the door pulled him begrudgingly back down from the clouds within his mind and he was aware of his surroundings once more.

"Mr. Cobblepot." There was a pause. "Mr. Cobblepot, Sir."

"Yes!?" Oswald yelled as he opened his eyes, his temper rising.

Reggie poked his head in. The bright light that filtered in burned Oswald's eyes and he squinted as he stared at the form in the doorway.

"I've gotten word that you have a visitor downstairs."

"Yesss… And?" Oswald asked through clenched teeth.

"It's urgent, uh—Sir, and they requested to speak with you immediately."

"Well," Oswald shouted harshly, throwing the thick blankets off of him in a fury as his anger finally boiled over, "you tell them that I personally—"

"They say they have important info regarding Fish Mooney."

This information stopped Oswald's trek to the door. He stood, dumbfounded, in the middle of his bedroom. _Fish Mooney?_ It had been over four years since her death, what news could a stranger possibly bring that he didn't already know?

In the beginning of his reign, Oswald had organized multiple heists to retrieve old files and anything else of importance from the Falcone, Maroni, and Mooney organizations. He had painstakingly read over each file his team had collected, absorbing all the disreputable information up like a sponge. Oswald now knew which GCPD cop was corrupt as well as which politician he could easily manipulate through the use of blackmail. He knew where Mooney kept her precious smuggled jewels, where Falcone kept his laundered millions, and where Maroni kept his smuggled girls from China. He had quickly learned the ends and outs of the three deceased organizations. It had truly been a painstaking mess at first but eventually Oswald held the upper hand among the many illegal businesses that littered Gotham City. Even after all these years no one had yet to step out of line or cross him. He had truly been lucky in that aspect and he was still humble enough to be thankful, for his luck would surely run out one day.

"Sir?"

Oswald was pulled back down to earth and he bit his bottom lip in contemplation. Should he venture down and appease his growing curiosity? Or should he just head back to bed and retire for the night? It had been a long day, after all. Fish Mooney had been dead for years anyways and he doubted he would learn anything new from this so-called informant but if they did provide insufficient information he could always kill them and that would at least make getting out of bed worth it.

"Tell them I'll be right down," he said after a moment.

"Yes, Sir." Reggie quickly retreated from the room.

Oswald stared at his hunched features in the mirror and a smile spread across his thin lips. The prospect of a possible kill sent a thrill through his spine. Oswald walked into his en-suite bathroom to retrieve a robe. He slipped it on as he walked over to his bed. Oswald lifted the pillow and grabbed the gun that he kept close to him at all times. Tucking the Colt Python within the strap of his boxer-briefs he made his way down the stairs to greet the visitor with a crooked smile still plastered upon his face.

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 **Thoughts? Comments? Shall I continue?**


	2. Chapter Two

**.::Note at the end of the chapter::.**

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 **Chapter Two  
** **November 4, 2019**

A fire had been lit inside the fireplace within Oswald's study. He sat patiently behind the dark mahogany desk waiting for Johnny, one of Fishs' old loyalist, to retrieve the visitor. His grip tightened around the handle of the gun that was hidden in his lap beneath the black silk robe he wore. If anything were to go awry he would be ready. Johnny would surely pat down the assailant before bringing the visitor to him, and Reggie, who stood as still as a statue in the corner of the study, was a good shot himself but one could never be too careful. Suddenly the doorknob turned and in walked the stranger with Johnny trailing closely behind. The bulky man bowed slightly in Oswald's direction before exiting the room, never looking him in the eye as he closed the door behind him.

A woman stood before Oswald, a blood red coat draped over her right arm. She stood,still, staring down at him with enchantingly bright sapphire eyes. Her dark, wavy hair rested fully past her shoulders and when she moved forward with her hand extended out towards him he caught a trace of her shampoo from where he sat—strawberries and cream, with a hint of something else familiar. She was not at all what Oswald was expecting. He blinked a few times to compose himself, hoping no one caught his slight falter, and placed his hand within her soft one; they shook.

"Mr. Cobblepot, it's a pleasure to finally meet you, Sir," she said politely as she released his hand and gestured toward the chair beside her. "May I?"

"Y-yes, please, sit," he stammered.

She draped her coat over the armrest and then sat, crossing legs and resting her small hands within her lap. Her round doe eyes stared over at him quizzically and he felt himself become hot, sweat beginning to bead around his hairline.

"I see that you're already acquainted with who I am. Now who, may I ask, are you?" Oswald placed his free hand down upon the desk and leaned forward, tapping his fingers as he waited for her to answer.

"Well, doesn't everyone know who you are, Mr. Cobblepot?" She chuckled and smiled brilliantly over at him.

He joined in her laughter, nodding. "Why yes, I guess you're right."

"Anywho, my name is Cassidy but you can call me Cass."

"Pleased to meet you as well. So how about we get down to business, I understand you have some information for me?"

"I have a small bit of information that might be of some significance." A sly smile tugged at the corner of her full lips and Oswald had sudden weird feeling within his gut that something was off. Was she toying with him? He rested a finger over the trigger—just in case—never loosing face.

"About Fish Mooney…?" he supplied after a brief pause.

Cass nodded slowly. She then turned, staring over at Reggie who was standing guard silently in the darkened corner of the study. He slightly bristled as her eyes roamed over his statuesque body.

"Um… Do you mind, hun? This really should be between us two."

Reggie's eyes broadened slightly and he looked over at Oswald for confirmation of what to do.

"Leave us," Oswald commanded simply.

"Yes Sir. I'll be right outside." Without another word, Reggie retreated from the small study, closing the doors behind him, leaving Oswald alone with the woman.

Once the doors were shut she turned around in the chair, facing him once more. "So, Mr. Cobblepot—"

"Please," he interrupted. "Call me Oswald."

She nodded. "You're the 'King of Gotham now, am I right?" she questioned, bright wonder on her face.

He felt himself begin to blush and leaned back in his seat away from the desk, hoping to conceal his reddening cheeks within the shadows of the firelight. "Y-yes, that's what I hear." No way would Oswald admit that it was he who had come up with that name. For some reason the nickname he had given himself suddenly felt rather corny.

"You like it?" She arched a perfectly shaped brow, awaiting an answer. "The control?"

"It has its advantages, yes," he said as he watched shadows from the fire dance across her curious features.

"Oh I bet," she said. "You took over how many territories? Three, was it?"

"Yes…" he answered stiffly. Oswald didn't like where this conversation was heading.

"Do you miss your old life?" she questioned, tilting her head to the side.

He knit his brow together. "What do you mean exactly?"

"You know…"—Cass's demeanor suddenly changed, the soft features of her face unexpectedly becoming hard while the cheerfulness of her voice diminished as well—"when you were nobody. When you were an umbrella boy for Fish Mooney herself. But now look at you," she said flatly as she leaned forward in the chair, placing her hands upon the desk. "Now you're the official King of Gotham. Infinite money and power right at your fingertips."

Oswald clamped his jaw shut. She was patronizing him. He kept his features unreadable as he finally realized he was witnessing her true self.

"What about even before that?" she continued on, her voice suddenly seductive. "Don't you miss being a younger man living with your mother? Taking care of your precious _birds_?"

Oswald felt his body clench up, his trigger finger almost releasing a round from the chamber. "How do you know about that?" he spat out.

She laughed at him and he felt himself instantly become hot with anger. "Tell me," he implored, his voice growing harsh. Without thinking he pulled the gun out from underneath his robe and pointed it at her.

His mind raced. How did she know about them—the birds? They had been a present from his mother when he was a young man of only eleven. They became his best friends; even saved him from reoccurring thoughts of suicide. Only his mother had known about them and how those three small Budgies had become his world. He knit his brow together as he stared over at her, wondering where she'd gotten her information.

"Tell me!" he repeated again, his voice growing louder. "How?"

Cass smirked and tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear as she stared down the barrel of the gun. "Since we're being honest here…" She slowly reached behind her and Oswald instantly stood, cocking the gun with his finger, not taking a chance. "Whoa! Calm down now!" she said holding her hands up in front of her, blue eyes holding no ounce of fear. "I'm not going to try anything now, I promise."

Oswald didn't say anything in response and after a moment, Cass reached around her back and pulled out a small pistol from the waist of her black jeans. She placed it down on the desk in between them. Oswald quickly grabbed it and placed it in a drawer on his desk and out of her reach.

Johnny, the fool. Easily wooed by some vixen in tight leather. Something would have to be done about that, but that was a thought for another time. Oswald stared over at her and she smiled innocently up at him. He frowned, no longer fazed by her phony cheerfulness. After a moment to collect himself, Oswald sat down in the leather chair, lowering the gun back to his lap as he did so.

"Look," he said. "Why don't we just cut the bullshit?" The smile disappeared from her face and a stoic look took over her soft features once more.

Cass sighed and then after a moment of contemplation, nodded once in agreement. "Fine," she breathed out in a large huff.

"Fish Mooney…?" he reminded her.

"Yes, Fish… Fish is,"—she blinked, removing her gaze from the black tile floor and up to his face—", Fish is alive."

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 **AN: Hello! I know my story might be off to a slow start but it'll get there. I really do hope I'm doing Oswald justice so far. I've found he's sort of tricky for me but I just cannot quit writing for this. So far I've written five chapters and cannot wait to post more. If anyone has any comments or changes that I might should make, please don't hesitate to let me know! Thank you so much. Hope you stay tuned!**


	3. Chapter Three

**.:Note at the end:.**

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 **Chapter Three  
November 4, 2019**

It was almost six in the morning when Oswald sat down in his favorite booth at his club with a glass of generously poured scotch in his hand. He took a large gulp from the clear crystal glass and winced as he tossed back the harsh swig of liquor. Oswald wasn't much of a drinker at any time of day but this morning in particular he felt as though he needed something a little stronger to calm his nerves.

After his encounter with the strange woman he had yet to sleep. When she had left, or more so when he had kicked her out for the crazy acquisitions she had threw at him, Oswald found himself up the rest of the night, his mind racing one hundred miles a minute over things that weren't possibly true. She had planted the seed of doubt within his brain and even though Oswald desperately tried to uproot the bastard it seem to just grow exponentially. Thoughts of 'what if' seemed to plague his mind as he had tossed and turned in bed, sleep forever abating him.

 _What if Fish Mooney was still alive?_ _Nah_. Oswald shook his head and tried to dismiss the thought that had a permeant hold within. The Gotham City Police Department had responded to the call from the teenage boys who had found Fish's waterlogged body near the water's edge. Surely if something had been amiss Detective Gordon would have recognized it immediately and contacted him. After another large gulp of the brown liquor Oswald slammed the glass down on top of the table sloshing a bit of the contents on it, some dripping from the table down onto the polished black marbled floor. He was about to call for Reggie, who had been running around preparing the club for the days operations—Johnny, no longer with them, of course—when he swiftly appeared from out of nowhere with a towel in hand.

"Sir, I believe Victor and his entourage just pulled up around back," Reggie said as he stooped down to clean the mess up off the floor.

"Send them in, will you?"

"Yes sir." With a firm nod the young man stood and retreated from the front room through the door marked _Employees_ _Only_. Oswald pulled out his pocket watch from within his waistcoat and opened it. Right on time as always. Seconds later, Reggie returned with Victor and Butch who was walking between Victor's leather clad lady liaisons. Butch suddenly was pushed forward, landing on his hands and knees on the floor in front of Victor. The insane man's wicked smile grew and Oswald watched silently as he tilted his head to the side, staring maliciously down at the sniveling man near his feet.

"Kiss my boot before we leave," Victor stated slyly. The big, burly man nodded his head and bent down, kissing the tip of Victor's black boot. "And the other…"—It was hard for Oswald to watch when Butch leaned over and kissed it as well—"That's right. Good Butch," Victor purred, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as if receiving some sort of pleasure from this small gesture. Butch nodded again shakily, never removing his eyes from the floor. Over the years Oswald had begun to notice a change in Butch. He was more passive than ever and with each return, Oswald was slowly realizing how broken Butch was becoming.

"So, Cobblepot," Victor began with his arms stretched out before him, his glazed eyes resting upon Oswald. "How are things?"

Oswald removed his gaze from the pathetic mess on the floor and stared up at Victor. "Things are prosperous. Very prosperous. Can't complain at least."

Victor's smile grew wider. "Good. Good. Well, I'd love to stay and chat but, you know," he said shrugging and nodding his head. "GIRLS!" Victor yelled suddenly, making Oswald jump along with Butch as well. Without a word the two women turned instantly and retreated through the door from whence they came, Victor following suit.

When the slam of the backdoor echoed throughout the empty club, Butch let out a noticeable sigh of relief and slowly rose from the submissive position he'd been in. He was slightly shaky as he turned, staring down at Oswald. This was by far the worse condition Butch had been returned in; his eyes were completely blood shot, rips and tears were all through his once nicely tailored suit—blood staining most of the charcoal colored fabric—he had fresh cuts all over his round face as well. The man looked God awful.

"Here," Oswald said, handing Butch the rest of his half empty glass. "You look like you need this more than I." With an unsteady hand, Butch's chubby fingers wrapped around the glass and he quickly tossed back the remnants. "Reggie pour him another." With a nod, Reggie done as he was told and handed Butch a refill. "Get yourself cleaned up. We have work to do," Oswald stated, his voice flat and even.

Butch nodded, staring at Oswald's back as he retreated from the front room.

 **XxX**

"But Mr. Cobblepot, Sir, the shipment was supposed to arrive at two earlier this afternoon."

Oswald slammed shut his bookie notebook making those around him jump as his patience finally ran out. He leaned back in his leather chair and stared blankly at Van, Chief Shipment Receiver for Oswald at Gotham Bay Area Docks.

"Look, Sir, me and Donny, w-we tried. But nada. Zilch," Van pleaded while rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "No trace of the order. No trace of it even being there in the first place. I-I-I'm sorry, boss. I don't know what else—"

"You find it!" Oswald yelled as he banged his fist down upon the desk and stood. "You find it. And if you don't, so help me, I'll personally find you two and have you both strung up by your dicks in downtown Gotham. Now… do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?"

The man cowered slightly before him, his hands wringing the hat he held in between his beefy palms, knowing that Oswald had the power to do exactly as he has threatened.

"Y-yes Sir." Without another word he retreated from the club's office, the loud music flowing through the opened door briefly before silencing as it shut the noise out once more.

Oswald sighed deeply as he fell back in the leather chair. This was the third time in the past six months that a shipment of his had went missing. The items that had vanished held no correlations with each other, making Oswald wonder if it was nothing but a mere accident. But after four years of smooth sailing something had to be amiss. Forty-five kilos of pure cocaine, old Tibetan documents he had won at an auction in London last year, and now one million worth of the finest dresses from the Ukraine he had ordered for his mother were lost without a trace. There was something he was missing.

"Fuck... I don't know what I'm going to do, Butch," Oswald groaned as he leaned back in the seat, deep within thought. There was a liar in his midst and he intended on finding out who. The workers for the docks were definitely up for the first rounds of interrogations but Oswald pocketed this small problem within his organization for another time. He was slowly approaching the twenty-four hour mark and he was starting to feel its effects. He closed his eyes and began rubbing his temples.

"Here you go, Sir." Butch, with his patched up hands, sat a small glass of water down in front of Oswald and dropped a tablet of dissolving aspirin within.

"Thank you," Oswald said graciously as he took a sip of the fizzing medicated water. "Five million gone altogether. Vanished from thin air. And of course no one seems to know a thing." Oswald chuckled manically to himself. "First the woman this morning and now this! As if this day couldn't get any worse."

There was a small rap at the door and dread instantly washed over Oswald like an omen. Butch walked over and checked the peephole first before opening the door fully. Reggie walked in, dressed in the custom work attire for Monday night's club activities, black suit and tie, with an uneasy look on his face.

"She's here, Sir," he said once Butch shut the door.

Blood quickly drained from Oswald's face. "What?" he growled as he eyed Reggie.

Apparently Oswald hadn't made it clear enough when he had kicked her out the night before. He straightened in the seat and fixed his tie. She was just going to have to learn the hard way. Gotham was his and those who didn't obey the rules were punished to the fullest extent. All she had to do was stay away, but alas...

"Grab and bring her here."

"Yes Sir." Reggie exited the large office swiftly, leaving Oswald attempting to keep his cool as he waited for his return. He pulled open a side drawer on the desk and drew out his Colt Python. Oswald wasn't taking any chances this time. Apparently this woman had a death wish if she were to show up at his club after he specifically told her to leave town. He knew he would come to regret letting her go instead of shooting her.

"Butch, a drink," he said simply.

Butch quickly nodded and turned, pouring him a scotch. When he handed it to Oswald he tossed it back in a hurry, the burn of the liquor soothing the rage with him only slightly. After two more small shots the door burst open and in walked Reggie with a struggling Cass. He had her arms pinned tightly behind her back. She grunted and shouted profanities at him as she kicked frantically in black stiletto heels.

"Let go of me," she heaved, attempting to maneuver out of Reggie's unwavering grasp.

After realizing there was no use to tussle with Reggie, Cass stilled and stared over at Oswald, huffing through strands of her dark chestnut hair as it hung dreadfully in front of her face. She looked strikingly different tonight than she had in the early morning hours at his home. The bright overhead light brought life into her face that had once been hidden beneath the shadows of a dark fire. Tonight she wore a form fitting teal halter dress that stopped mid-thigh, the color contrasting well against the dark tones of her tanned skin. As he stared over at her nicely shaped hips, Oswald felt slightly guilty for using a round on Johnny earlier this morning. A man could easily get lost in a woman like that. She was breathtakingly beautiful and Oswald couldn't help but stare. After a moment Oswald blinked, his mind clearing as their conversation from earlier trickled back into his mind.

"Welcome back," Oswald said coolly as he stared up into her hypnotic blue eyes.

"Fuck you," she said, a scowl permanently etched on her glossy pink lips.

"Gladly," Oswald teased with a sick smile upon his face. "Tell me… What are you doing here? What do you—" He was stopped mid-sentence when Butch took a step forward, abandoning his permanent position by Oswald's side. The conversation easily forgotten as everyone trained their eyes upon the burly, battered man. "Butch, what are you—" Oswald began but stilled his words again when Butch suddenly leaned against the side of his desk, holding onto it as if he had somehow became weak in the knees. His breath was labored, the evidence in his shoulders rising and falling quickly.

"Cassie?" Butch asked hesitantly, his voice barely a whisper.

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 **AN: Ahh! Cliff hanger! I hope you guys are enjoying this as much as I am writing it. I have so much in store for this story and I cannot wait to write it out. Until next time...**

 **PS: I'm not real sure why my icon for this story isn't popping up. I've tried over and over again to upload it but I keep getting the corrupt icon. Hopefully it'll eventually fix itself but who knows.**


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